


this is how the light gets in

by hawkeish



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: (kind of), Anders Positive, Developing Relationship, Emotions, F/M, Feelings, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Hawke is a mess, Idiots in Love, Light Angst, Morning After, Mutual Pining, Pet Names, Purple Hawke (Dragon Age), Two Shot, Unresolved Emotional Tension, can you still pine even after you've banged, post-sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-20
Updated: 2020-08-21
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:13:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25989529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hawkeish/pseuds/hawkeish
Summary: Hawke wakes up beside Anders and realises what that means.Things can get somewhat tricky when you sleep with your closest friend.
Relationships: Anders/Female Hawke
Comments: 11
Kudos: 44





	1. After

Hawke awoke from the first dreamless sleep she’d had in months feeling slightly dazed. Distantly, she could hear the low noises of the household slowly stirring: a fire being lit, pots clanging, Orana’s gentle voice bidding her mother a good morning. Weak light, as well as the comforting scent of coffee brewing on the stove, drifted through the blade-thin gap beneath her door. By her guess, it couldn’t have been much later than eight. As she came round, curling into her warm, downy duvet, a dull headache started to creep around her temples. How late had she—had _they—_ been up last night? How much sleep had she—no, _they—_ actually got?

Time hadn’t seemed real, between the kisses and the undressing and the sex. Desire did that, she levelled. Trapped you in a world of your own want. Everything else faded into the background, or stopped existing at all.

_Want._

Hawke took a deep breath and glanced to her left. Though she knew exactly what she would see, her stomach flipped all the same.

Anders lay sleeping beside her, naked as she, one slender arm curled under his pillow. The other, she realised, was laid across her stomach, his wide hand spread gently across her diaphragm. It shifted occasionally with the rise-and-fall of her chest; when his skin brushed against hers, her breath hitched. His touch was warmer, softer, than she’d imagined, though she’d always found his hands to be little marvels. Slender and work-hardened and so precise in everything they did.

 _Everything_ they did, truly. Last night had been, well…

At the memory, her whole body burned. Usually, she only had scant recollections of her conquests. Usually, they were a result of being very drunk and very bored and having little better to do. But this was different. Both of them had been sober as Chantry sisters. There could have been a lot else they could have been doing, but there had been nothing else either of them had wanted half as much. Hawke remembered all of it. Too much of it. What she’d admitted to him, the things he’d told her, how it had felt to have their bodies intertwined…

Slamming the thoughts down, she rolled onto her side, away from him. As she moved, his hand slipped from her chest and came to rest just above her hip. She held her breath as he shifted at the movement, and tried to force away the shivers that trailed as his skin dawdled a lazy path across hers. This never happened. She was a consummate professional in spiriting her lovers away during the night. How long had it been since she’d roused next to someone? How long had it been since—she cringed at the realisation—she’d _wanted_ to?

She exhaled as quietly as she could, trying to hold her body still. _Don’t wake up don’t wake up don’t wake up_

“Hawke?”

Anders’ voice was sleep-heavy, soft as velvet.

_Shit._

A few long, aching moments passed before Hawke worked up the courage to reply. She didn’t turn to face him. “Sorry if I disturbed you.”

When he chuckled gently and stroked her hip, Hawke felt her entire body go weak.

“Don’t worry,” he murmured, stifling a yawn. “I hope I wasn’t a terrible bed-warmer.”

Damn him and his face and his voice and his heart and his _hands._

“No.” Hawke practically squeaked the word. _You were wonderful. You were perfect._ “You were perfectly average.”

Anders chuckled again. “A ringing endorsement. I’ll take it.”

He slid his hand back to her stomach and tried to draw her closer, pressing small kisses across the curve of her shoulder.

Hawke froze. Her entire body tensed. She felt a little dizzy. A sickening wave of fear pitched through her, like she was perched on the edge of some towering cliff, dangling over the abyss.

Want. She wanted him. She wanted him so much that it was terrifying.

Anders released her suddenly. “Shit, Hawke, I’m sorry. Are you okay? I didn’t mean to—”

“I’m fine,” she broke in, although she very much did not feel _fine_. “You’re fine. I just…”

 _I just feel very exposed._ The words wouldn’t come.

She shifted so that she was facing him then, though the sickening feeling lurched as she did so. He’d propped himself up on an elbow, had tugged the covers up as if attempting at decency: Hawke tried not to stare too much at his pale chest, or at the sharp, defined _v_ of muscle that disappeared below the duvet. When she saw his expression was heavy with concern, with care, Hawke tried to smile reassuringly and reached out to lay a light hand on his arm.

“This isn’t normally how this goes,” she offered, by way of explanation. “The…staying.”

Anders nodded a little. He looked almost guilty. “I can leave, if that’s better. If that’s what you’d like.”

“No!” she replied quickly, before he could move. “Stay. Please.”

The urgency in her voice shocked her; it seemed to take Anders by surprise, too. He frowned, still a little drowsy, and gently moved her hand from where it lay on his arm, so it sat on the mattress between them instead. He kept his warm hand on hers, brushing a thumb absent-mindedly over the soft scallops of her knuckles. Unable to stop herself, Hawke marvelled at the way her smaller hand curved perfectly beneath his.

_Maker’s breath. Pull yourself together, Marian._

“Hawke.” He said her name like a prayer—gently, reverently. “If this was a mistake—if you’re uncomfortable—tell me. I’ll go. I know what I said, but I understand. We can be friends. Nothing more.”

As he spoke, he was earnest as ever, but something like melancholy shone in his amber eyes. Those eyes that were like pools of honey, rich and warm. If his hands were little miracles, she realised, Anders’ eyes were something else completely. Hawke could have happily drowned herself in them.

Fuck. She was a walking cliché. Hawke bit her lip, willing him to stop stroking her hand so she could think straight for even a second.

“Friends,” she repeated. The word felt soulless. “Nothing more.”

Anders’ gazed dropped to where their hands rested. “If that’s what you want.”

 _Friends_ didn’t think about friends like this. _Friends_ didn’t lay awake at night, pining for friends. _Friends_ didn’t ache deep in their chests every time they made friends smile, or laugh, or snort so hard that they nearly choked on their beer.

Friends slept with friends, sure. What else had she and Isabela been? But the very idea of being nothing more to him, after all this, felt flimsy. Hollow. _Wrong_. Every time he would heal her, or drag her away from whatever argument she shouldn’t be in, or try to steal one of her cards when he was losing at Wicked Grace like always, she’d remember how he’d touched her. How he _could_ touch her.

Hawke didn’t know what she wanted, not really. Other than that she wanted him.

“Say something, would you?”

She answered with a kiss.


	2. Later

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It turns out going for breakfast with your closest friend/lover/the person you've been pining after for years is somewhat tricky, too.

“Come for breakfast with me,” Anders said suddenly, after he’d shucked his overshirt over his head and tucked it loosely into his dark breeches.

Halfway through lacing up the front of her boned, embroidered bodice, Hawke jerked her head up, fingers stilled. “What?”

“Come for breakfast with me, Hawke,” he repeated.

Hawke gestured to the room, the estate. “Save your money for the clinic. We have plenty of food here. You can eat till your Warden heart is content. Free of charge, too! Don’t say I’m not benevolent.”

“Maker!” Anders groaned and ran a hand through his loose, bed-mussed hair, but he was smiling. “Can you not let me do something nice for you?”

Glancing between her half-covered chest and he, Hawke arched a dark eyebrow. “You did plenty of nice things for me last night. Also, I’m very aware that you’re trying to avoid my mother. Don’t worry. She’s encountered enough of Carver’s lady friends over the years that she won’t much care, even though it’s _you_ and she’s slightly obsessed. I try my best not to listen to what she has to say, anyway.”

After everything, it felt strange to be so nonchalant with him. In the back of her mind, she knew was trying to slip back into their well-worn groove: they’d worked so well as friends, after all, dancing around each other, burying their longing beneath bad jokes and irreverence and pain.

But in the back of her mind, too, she knew there were new steps to their dance now. Steps she’d fumble, no doubt. She never had been good at this.

Anders reached out and brushed his hand against her cheek for a moment, before going to retrieve his boots from where he’d hastily discarded them by the empty hearth. “You’re terrible.”

At his touch, her heart quivered. Her thoughts started to spiral, but she forced out an awkward laugh. _This is normal. This is fine. Be normal. Be fine._ “A terrible person, or merely a terrible daughter? Ooh, or how about _both_!”

“Indulge me,” he insisted, snatching his coat from where it lay over her trinket-box. “There’s something I want you to try.”

“Your diplomatic silence on the subject of my terribleness is noted, Anders.” Hawke moved to rummage through her chest for a clean tunic, throwing any unsuccessful candidates over her shoulder. "Also, you’re meant to save ‘there’s something I want to you try _’_ for when we’re _un_ dressing. Remember that for next time.”

He snorted, but the sound cut off abruptly as her words registered. “There’ll be a next time.”

 _Of course of course of course._ “Only if this breakfast of yours proves to be the most Maker-damned delectable thing I’ve ever tasted in my life.”

“Don’t underestimate me, Hawke.”

She glanced over her shoulder. “You can call me Marian, you know.”

Dressed and as proper as was possible, they slipped out of the Amell estate and into the gilded jaws of Hightown without running into the rest of the household, thank the Maker. Whilst Hawke made a point of declaring she was above her mother’s judgement, the truth was rather the opposite, though craving parental affirmation rather diminished the air of aloofness she’d tried so hard to construct since they’d fled Ferelden.

This was one conversation Hawke did _not_ want to have with Leandra, however.

_Mother, I’m sleeping with the apostate! Any advice?_

The idea made Hawke wince as she trailed Anders down the many, many steps towards Lowtown, weaving past crowded market-stalls and through throngs of the brainless devout marching up to the Chantry for the morning service. Perhaps the elder Amell would find the whole affair endearing, Hawke mused. Finally, here was the similarity Leandra had always craved between the two of them, chalk and cheese as they were. Like mother, like daughter, in the end.

Be it fate, or chance, or sheer, dumb luck, whatever the hell drew two people together liked to work in funny ways.

“Hey, woah. Wrong way, Ha—Marian.”

It took Hawke a second to realise that Anders had caught her hand in his, had gently pulled her to a stop before she barrelled head-first into the bazaar. When she realised he hadn’t let go even after he’d caught her attention, it was like all the blood had suddenly rushed to her head. Hawke had to bite down on her lip to stop herself from smiling like a loon.

So this would be her end. Something so small and utterly stupid as holding his hand.

Maker, she hated this.

“Down here.” Nodding his head towards a narrow side-street that smelled slightly dank, he smiled. “Trust me.”

Hawke sighed. “This won’t go anywhere, Anders. Believe me.”

Anders gave her a look that she couldn't quite read. “Won’t it?”

He laced his fingers in hers and tugged at her arm, and the sensation was such a delight that Hawke felt she couldn’t do anything but follow. The warren of streets he led her down were, like most of Kirkwall, skeletal and winding - run-down buildings pressed close on both sides, and and the gutters were filled with various forms of decay. A few people wandered past, all with that hard Lowtown look on their faces, a grimace carved in by years of toil and trouble. Nobody said a _hello_ in passing or gave them a second look, not like they would’ve in Hightown if they’d caught the Amell girl walking hand-in-hand with some Darktown refugee.

Everything here seemed normal. Plain. A web of dead-end alleys.

Until it wasn’t. Suddenly, the street they were on ballooned out into a wide plaza draped with vivd, jewel-toned banners as far as the eye could see, packed with people and kiosks and _life._

Hawke had no idea where they were, or how they’d got here. But it was magnificent. Almost as magnificent as the feeling of his thumb absent-mindedly brushing against hers as they stood there, taking it in.

“What the fuck?” she breathed, eyes wide, drinking in the colour. Everywhere she looked, there seemed to be a different stall, selling everything she could dream of—bright bolts of patterned fabric,gleaming flasks of tinctures and potions, jewels that dazzled and shone even in the weak Lowtown light. And food. Oh, the food. Heady scents mingled in the air, strong enough to make her stomach growl.

“You’re not the only one who knows Kirkwall,” Anders said with a grin, slipping his hand from hers. “Now wait here.”

“Wha—”

Quiet as a shadow, he’d slipped into the crowd before she could finish. A little dazed, Hawke didn’t know what else to do but find somewhere to wait, like he’d instructed. Scanning through the ebb and flow of bodies, she spotted a low wall facing out over what must’ve been the alienage below. That would do.

She wandered over and sat, drawing her knees up to her chest and leaning back against the wall. The breeze whistled through the vhenadahl’s canopy as she stared after Anders, searching the crowd for a glimpse of feathers. An odd, wrenching feeling was pulling at her chest, as though someone had wrapped a thread round her heart and he were its anchor.

Hawke didn’t like it. Hawke didn’t like feeling like this—all at sea, all tied up, all vulnerable and stumbling like a fool and, it slowly dawned on her, _happy—_

“Budge up.”

Hawke’s heart leapt to her throat; she flinched at the unexpected sound of his voice, the dagger strapped to her belt already unsheathed. Andraste’s ass, he was too good at sneaking around.

“Maker’s breath!” She made a face at him, stowing her blade away. “Make more noise next time, would you? I’d rather not stab you if I can avoid it.”

“Sorry, sorry.” Sliding down the wall to plonk himself beside her, so close their knees were touching, Anders gave her a sheepish smile. “Hunting darkspawn and avoiding Templars instils a few bad habits. Anyway, are you ready?” He patted his pocket, which looked full to bursting. “I’m not sure you’re ready. This is the best thing you’ll eat for a while, I promise you. Truly, a culinary revelation.”

Hawke pursed her lips, knocking her leg against his. “Don’t be a tease.”

“You enjoyed it last night.”

Yes, she had, hadn’t she? Heat bloomed across her chest, her cheeks, the tips of her ears; her tongue suddenly felt heavy as lead, stumbling over what she wasn’t sure she wanted to say. “Erm—I—look, Anders, I take food very seriously. Hand whatever this is over.”

He was grinning. “If you insist.” With a flourish, he pulled two small parcels wrapped in thin, pale paper, dropping one in her lap. The corner of its wrapping had unravelled, revealing an edge of golden, glazed pastry, like that of the apple turnovers her mother used to make back in Lothering. “One almond croissant, mademoiselle. I’m cultured for a dog-lord, I know.”

Hoping it might distract from her fluster, Hawke made a show of inspecting the small, sugared pastry he’d presented her, sniffing it with a theatrical air of suspicion. “You do realise this is enough to have your Ferelden citizenship revoked?”

Unwrapping his own breakfast, Anders huffed out a laugh. “Good thing I know the king’s mistress. And the king. And the Warden-Co—”

“Yes, yes, colourful past, you probably attempted to seduce all of them, yada yada.” The joking felt easier, now, like it always had. Like breathing. Some of the tension that’d been pooling in her chest released, though Hawke knew her whole face was still ruddy. She swiped a finger across the pastry’s glossy crust, then tentatively stuck said finger in her mouth. Sugared almond pearled on her tongue, but beneath it was the hint of something more, something spiced and warm. “A _croissant_ , you say?” When she sounded out the word, it wasn’t half as graceful. “My, you’re practically a linguist.”

“One of my many talents. The Circle was good for something, I suppose. Interesting way to eat it,” he noted, biting down into his own breakfast.

Rolling her eyes, she tentatively nibbled at the edge of the pastry. “A woman should always sample before committing—holy shit—”

Heaven sang in her mouth. Sweet and fluffy and rich and buttery and unbelievably fucking _delicious._

Hawke’s eyes widened. She held the croissant aloft before her as if in worship. “Andraste’s flaming ass! _How_ have I never eaten this before? This is—this is—if it turns out the Maker isn’t sat on his throne surrounded by an endless pile of these, I damn well don’t want to die and be cradled at his bosom. Let me live forever or provide me with the goods, coward!”

Anders nudged her. “I told you. Don’t underestimate me, Marishenka. Their cheese might as well be made from darkspawn shit, but those Orlesians know how to make a pastry.”

Hawke paused mid-chomp. “Mariwhatnow?”

“Marishenka.” When Hawke still looked baffled, Anders chuckled. “Ah, so you’ve never met an overbearing grandmother from the Anderfels. Noted.”

“I’m assuming this is some strange northern thing, then.”

“Anders have about ten different names for the same thing. Some affectionate, some the equivalent of dropping your smalls and taking a dump on their dead mother’s grave.”

“What a lovely notion for a mealtime, Anders.” Careful to savour it, Hawke nibbled the corner of her pastry. “And how delightfully confusing.”

Anders shrugged. “At least they’re more open about their quarrels than Orlesians. If you hear an Ander call you Marishka, run.”

Frowning, Hawke tried to wrap her head around the intricacies. “But if I hear _Marishenka,_ I’m in your good books?”

“Exactly. And if you’re in my _very_ good books, it might even be Masha.”

 _Masha_. Part of her thought it sounded ridiculous.

The rest of her thought it sounded like something from a song she desperately wanted him to sing.

Hawke tried not to think about how softly the name slipped from his tongue. “So you learned this all from your grandmother, huh? I’m imagining a kindly old woman with the straightest, pointiest nose in all Thedas.”

When he didn’t laugh, Hawke felt her blood run a touch cold. The croissant’s heavenly taste seemed dulled, now slightly too sickly where it had first been just right.

There was a slight pause. Anders’ face fell as he stared off into the distance, lowering his half-eaten croissant to his lap. “No. I, uh, never met any of my grandparents. Or if I did, I don’t remember.”

“Oh." _Seriously, Marian?_ Of course he hadn't. He'd been trapped in a fucking _tower_ for most of his life—and here she was, reminding him of what he'd missed. She balled her fist, dug her nails into her palm. Why was she such a bumbling fool? "I should've...I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.” Anders chewed on his lip, distracted. “If you want to know, my da taught me. He moved to Ferelden when he was young, but he was Ander through and through. When he wasn’t telling me to get strong so I could join the Wardens, it was mainly _Andrushka,_ _feed the chickens!_ or _Androchka, say your prayers to our blessed lady Andraste!”_

He did this face when he imitated his father—wrinkling his nose, furrowing his brow, jutting his chin up just so—that had Hawke torn between wanting to laugh and needing to wrap him in a hug. Neither, though, felt right. His whole body seemed to have stiffened as he’d thought of his family; there was a hardness to his expression, and a muscle fluttered in his jaw.

So instead, she tried to be blithe. “So Anders are pious. And big fans of the Wardens.”

He shrugged. No smile. “The Chantry and the Order are all they have.”

“Well.” Tentatively, Hawke placed a hand on his arm and squeezed it. “I’m sure he would have been proud that you joined.”

Trapped in memory, Anders didn’t seem to register her touch. He laughed, though this time the sound rang hollow, lacking any of his normal joviality.

“My father hated me,” he said, flatly.

“I’m sure that’s not—”

Anders looked her in the eye then, and the action forced her mute. There was no light in them. No warmth. For a second, she thought she saw a frightening crackle of blue as he bit out his reply.

“Who do you think sold me out to the Templars, Marian?”

Hawke froze. Her heart sank. The words burned, like poison slowly seeping into a wound.

His own _father_. The image of her father—smiling proudly at her when she conjured her first wisp of magic, ruffling her hair as she blew out candles on her birthday, laughing as Pork tackled her to the ground with sloppy mabari kisses—burst into her mind. To think, if he hadn’t shared her power, he could have abandoned her, could have thrown her into the prison of the Circle—

A fierce pain split open in her. Against her back, the stone wall felt cold and hard as ice. The thought was almost too much to bear. “Anders, I’m sorry. That’s—that’s—”

Words failed. She didn’t know quite what to say. What _could_ she say? Against this, sympathy felt redundant. Everything felt redundant.

“Don’t be sorry,” he replied, voice cold. “I got out.”

“That doesn’t make it better.”

“Yes, well.” He dropped his head. Stray, golden hairs escaped his messy half-bun to dangle over his face. Hawke yearned to reach across and smooth them away, but the action felt wrong—too soft, too intimate, even after everything.

She settled a hand on one of the feathered pauldrons, instead. “I _am_ sorry.”

At her touch, Anders seemed to lose some of his tension, straightening up where he sat. He cleared his throat and glanced over to her, eyes that usual molten gold again, much to her relief. “I…Maker, this is hardly what we should be talking about. This was supposed to be nice.”

She smiled in return, though her heart still ached. “It is nice.”

“If you say so.”

“I do. I like getting to know you, Anders.”

“Getting to know my deep-rooted trauma, you mean.”

“Oh, because you’ve hardly wanted to share that with the world before.”

This, thank the Maker, elicited the faint ghost of a smile. “Touché.”

They settled into a slightly uneasy silence. Questions urged to trip off Hawke’s tongue, but she swallowed them, even if the desire to know more about him burned fiercely inside. Hawke did like getting to know him; that hadn’t been a lie. Hawke liked kissing him, too. Hawke liked very many things about him, and she felt a little lost as the thought dawned upon her. That sensation of staring down into the deep, dark abyss swelled inside her again, and she stole her hand back to sit in her lap.

Flemeth had told her to leap.

Hawke didn’t know if she could.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was pure self-indulgence on my part, but I hope you enjoyed it!  
> Breakfast dates are one of my favourite things, but it's these two eejits, so even something nice was never going to be completely painless.
> 
> (also I know Ander is meant to be roughly based on German, but I looked at that and thought nope, because Russian/Slavic diminutives are fun and are very on-brand for our favourite pining, romantic Sad Bastard.)

**Author's Note:**

> so this is part of a bigger DA2 fic, but I'm too impatient to wait until the rest of said fic is less of a scrappy, horrible mess, so have some FEELINGS.
> 
> thanks for reading! title once again stolen from Father John Misty, because I strive to be predictable.


End file.
